


Helping Hands

by zade



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Injury, Insecurity, Other, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 11:45:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4058782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zade/pseuds/zade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all starts when Clarke grabs his hand, stepping in between him and Bellamy, fighting, always fighting because no one can stand him for that long, let alone like, let alone love, and he jumps away from her, frantic. </p><p>For the prompt:“Don’t fucking touch me.” w/ clarke+murph+bell. preferably with murphy whump</p>
            </blockquote>





	Helping Hands

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for: serious insecurities, injury, infection, medical care
> 
> beta'd by the lovely [hateboners](http://www.hateboners.tumblr.com)

It all starts when Clarke grabs his hand, stepping in between him and Bellamy, fighting, always fighting because no one can stand him for that long, let alone like, let alone love, and he jumps away from her, frantic. 

“Don’t fucking touch me!” he spits, pulling back, pressing his hands to his chest, fingers buried in the cloth so she can’t see, she won’t know.

It’s been a fuck of a day, hands sore and cramping from separating nuts from their shells, always hurting now, since the day they came back and gripped a towel, then a gun, no time to rest, no time to stop, because if he doesn’t prove his worth, doesn’t work as hard as he can, what is the point of him? So he is quiet and fast and doesn’t stop when he hurts and he doesn’t ask for help, because he has to be useful and require nothing. 

She knows, though, he can see it in her eyes, the sudden softening around her eyes and hardening around her lips. She will be insistent now, pitying. Bellamy halts, too, taking cues from Clarke like he always does, because they are perfectly attune, perfect for each other, perfect, just perfect.

His breathing speeds up, and Clarke reaches out for his hand, expectantly. Bellamy swoops behind him, boxes him, body fitting seamlessly between him and Clarke; a buffer, a barrier.

“Murphy, show me, please,” Clarke says, imploring, cajoling. It’s the please that gets him, that someone is pleading to take away part of his burden, and how can he not give in? He has always been weak.

Blindly, he thrusts his hands towards her, eyes teary with shame and pain, and he closes them tightly against her gasp and the sudden hard pressure of Bellamy’s hand on his shoulder.

His fingers are infected. He knows infections, knows the sickly smell of bodies fading; weak. His nailbeds are swollen and painful to the touch, sometimes oozing with pus, always pink and fat and hurting. It is like everything else; pain, penance, birthright.

It has been this way for weeks. It’s getting worse, infection paired with headaches and fever, mortality spreading through his veins from his fingertips. No one has noticed and he hasn’t been too eager to share. He is kept around because he is useful, if he is not useful he has no place. The Ark, the drop ship, Camp Jaha: float, banish, forget.

“Murphy, your hands!” Bellamy is too close to his ear to be speaking that loud and he jumps, but Bellamy’s hand is a weight, an anchor, and he is moored.

“We need to get you to my mom, right now.” Clarke’s voice is urgent, but her fingers cradling his are gentle and steady.

It is hard to make himself pull away, but he does. Better not convince himself that someone cares; better not let anyone see where he’s weak. They can only hurt him later, and he has already been hurt so much. He shakes his head weakly, suddenly exhausted and woozy. “No.”

He steps away, away from the hurt and concerned look on Clarke’s face (which is not for him, never for him) and the confusion on Bellamy’s (which is pretty standard, actually). He realizes he is going to pass out as soon as he takes that first step, legs wobbling under him and head spinning sickeningly, like the drop to earth, like rollercoasters he read about in history books, like the way his heart plummets every time Clarke and Bellamy meet his eyes, like they could care at some point, like they could stand him.

Clarke’s eyes widen comically wide, and as his eye close, he can feel Bellamy’s arms wrap around him, and he tries not to savor the moment too much, even if he’s pretty sure it might be the last thing he ever sees.

This makes sense to him, as an end. An end before he outlived his use. A good end, maybe.

He wakes up to the nauseating scent of that red seaweed tea that Clarke had brewed in huge batches as soon as the camp had been established. He reaches up to touch his face, which feels warm and tight. The seaweed smell intensifies, and he can feel the brush of cloth against his face before the scent becomes too much and he turns onto his side and vomits, feels the immediate brush of something cool and wet across his forehead, and wiping up his mouth.

He opens his eyes and blinks, several times, because his eyes are blurry and crusty and when his fingertips blink into focus, they are stained bright seaweed red and wrapped in strips of cloth. He stares at them, confused, and realizes someone is talking to him.

“Murphy, are you finally awake? Bell, pass me more of the seaweed, please?”

He tilts his head up and tries to keep his eyes from swimming, to see Clarke, gently spreading the seaweed mixture onto his other fingertips, as Bellamy rips a shirt into thin strips.

“Where?” he asks, and his throat is sore, but his vision is still narrow and he feels like death warmed over, which is almost a comforting feeling at this point.

“My tent,” Bellamy says, and fetches a cold cloth from somewhere and places it on his forehead, and he’s so grateful that he actually moans. “You’ve slept for an entire afternoon.”

He doesn’t sound angry, though, or frustrated that Murphy skipped an entire afternoon of work and survived. He sounds, pleased, maybe, or relieved.

Clarke is smiling down at him then, bringing a cup of awful smelling seaweed tea to his lips. “Drink this for me?” she asks gently, and so he does. It tastes terrible, worse than it smells, bitter and thick, and it’s hard to keep down, but he tries.

It’s going to suck when he wakes up from this dream, he thinks, and Clarke’s smile fades a little bit. He wonders if she’s suddenly developed psychic abilities from all the earth radiation, or if he’s just that obvious and sad, or if maybe he’s said something he didn’t mean to.

Bellamy brushes the hair from his face. He has that relieved and slightly confused look back on his face, but he smiles down at Murphy like Murphy has earned that. “Your fever’s almost broken.”

“Okay,” he says, and lets his eyes drift shut.

“Sleep some more. We’ll be here when you wake up.”

Murphy nods, feels himself drift. He hopes it’s true, but he isn’t holding his breath.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on the [tumblr](http://www.racetrackthehiggins.tumblr.com)


End file.
